


Whatever Road We Choose

by riwriting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12th Century, Angst, Broken Bones, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Hypothermia, Injury, References to Literature, The Arrangement, Trust, Wings, crowley likes plants, effects of emotional abuse, effects of indoctrination, hurt comfort, inaccurate historical references, inaccurate literary references, indoctrination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20261314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riwriting/pseuds/riwriting
Summary: Technically, any being that had ever been an angel could have heard his call for help. He hadn't had the time to secure the request. It was just.... He had been attacked by demons. Why would another demon intervene? They might have an Arrangement, but at the end of the day, they were on opposite sides. You didn't rescue the Enemy. You especially didn't rescue the Enemy from your own people.He almost laughed at the absurdity of it.Some sort of noise must have escaped. The figure beside him suddenly jumped. The dark wing serving as an extra blanket retracted as the head turned. “You're awake.” The relief in Crowley's snake eyes was impossible to miss.So it was the absurd option, then. He really had been rescued by a demon.~*~Or: Aziraphale expected a rescue from Heaven; he got one from Crowley instead.





	1. December 31, 1170 A.D.

**December 31, 1170 A.D.**

The simple things came back first. The smell of a wood fire. The weight of layered blankets. The soft rustle of wings. Although Aziraphale's mind remained shrouded in fog, he knew two things – he was no longer in the well and he was not back in Heaven. Not discorporated then.

Keeping still, he tried to take stock of his body. He needed to know what he was working with, and then figure out where he was. And _then _he could formulate a plan. And hopefully do all of that before there was Trouble. He needed to start with the basics. What could he feel? The numbing cold was gone. The pain that had radiated down his right wing was now a dull throb. While his muscles felt stiff, he couldn't detect any other injuries. He could probably fight if he had to.

Probably.

Maybe.

The wing would be a hindrance.

Fighting might not be necessary. The last thing he remembered was the well, but he was obviously not there now. For one, he wasn't surrounded by icy water. That meant he had to be in friendly territory, didn't it? The demons who had lured him into their trap weren't after a prisoner to torture. Or were they? No. They were after an angel to kill, not to drag back Down Below for ongoing Pain And Suffering.

And Aziraphale felt pretty certain that Hell did not give its prisoners blankets. It should also be – if Crowley's drunken rambling descriptions held any truth at all – warmer than it currently was. He felt comfortable and not as if he was burning up all over.

The logical explanation was that someone had tried to help him. He was most likely in friendly territory. He'd managed to get off a call for help before..._before_. Someone had heard and dispatched help. Said help had driven off the demons, pulled him from the well, and brought him here to recover, wherever here was. Somewhere that was warm and safe and on Earth. Aziraphale found himself more relieved than he ought to have been. It was just...he had _doubted_. When he sent off the call for help, there had been a part of him that wondered if Heaven was going to send anyone. 

It was stupid, really. There shouldn't be any doubts. If he was a better angel, he wouldn't have had them. A better angel would never have let Crowley get into his head with all that drunken talk last month.  _Heaven doesn't care about you_ , the demon had told him.  _All they care about are ticking off the boxes on their checklist. Mark my words, Angel, the moment you cease being useful, they'll drop you_ . While he'd told Crowley that, should the demon continue to speak such horrid lies, Aziraphale would call off their Arrangement and Crowley had wisely listened (for once), the words still wheedled their way into Aziraphale's brain. When he'd been scrambling to get out of an infernally cursed well with a broken wing and tiring muscles, when he'd prayed that the message for help had gotten through, when  _no one was coming_ , he found himself bitterly thinking that Crowley had been right. 

He felt foolish and a bit wretched for that doubt now. It was, if Aziraphale was being honest, the evidence he needed to do the thing he knew he should have done before now: end the Arrangement. A good angel never would have entered it. A good angel would not have even spoken to Crowley other than to tell him that he was Evil and Would Be Defeated. But Aziraphale wasn't a good angel. He'd talked to Crowley. He'd listened to Crowley. He'd allowed Crowley to hang around, eat with him, share a bottle of wine, complain about their bosses. Oh, a good angel would not complain about Gabriel – and especially not to a _demon_. He would just do what Gabriel told him with a smile. And despite all that – despite Aziraphale's utter failings as an angel – Heaven had still helped him out when he needed it. He would, he promised himself, make things right and be a better angel after this.

Aziraphale slowly opened his eyes and tried to take in as much as possible without moving. Above him, he could see shadows from dancing flames. There was a bright warmth to his right – that had to be the fire he'd smelled. Additional heat radiated from directly left and, when he inclined his eyes lower, Aziraphale could see that he was covered by both a stack of blankets and a large, black wing.

Oh.

Oh dear.

He shut his eyes again and wondered just what had _happened?_ He was sure that whoever Heaven had sent would most likely know Aziraphale, but the handful of the angels he knew with beautiful jet black wings weren't in the battalions. They were creative types who were fascinated by the beauty of the heavens and the earth, and who's idea of fun was forming clouds into shapes for the humans to spot. They were the type, had things been different, that Aziraphale might have liked to be friends with instead of casual work acquaintances. What they weren't, however, was warriors. They also rarely came down to the Earth's surface. Not these days, anyway. Had something happened? If there had been an attack or, or another war, or _something_, wouldn't he have known? Surely he would have known.

It didn't change the fact that he couldn't think of any good reason Heaven would send an artist to fight off demons other than  _they're all we've got_ .

If something terrible had happened, then he needed to do something. He needed to help. He might not be the best angel Heaven had, but he could do his part. Or at least _try _to do his part. Aziraphale forced his eyes open and demanded his body move. He turned his head to one side, opening his mouth to alert his brother that he was awake. The other angel's back was to him, their attention directed towards the front of what Aziraphale was now able to identify as a cave. Tangled dark red curls fell over shoulders hunched with tension, ending just above what could only be described as a large birthmark if birthmarks were made of scales. A new thought slammed into Aziraphale and he shut his mouth.

There _was _another possible explanation. It was just...it was _absurd_. Technically, any being that had ever been an angel could have heard his call for help. He hadn't had the time to secure the request. It was just.... He had been attacked by _demons._ Why would another demon intervene? They might have an Arrangement, but at the end of the day, they were on _opposite sides_. You didn't rescue the Enemy. You especially didn't rescue the Enemy from your own people.

He almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

Some sort of noise must have escaped. The figure beside him suddenly jumped. The dark wing serving as an extra blanket retracted as the head turned. “You're awake.” The relief in Crowley's snake eyes was impossible to miss.

So it was the absurd option, then. He really had been rescued by a demon.

Aziraphale blinked.

Crowley rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself up to sit on his knees. The blanket fell away, leaving him in nothing more than braies. A wicked looking dagger clattered to the ground and was immediately forgotten. Crowley oh-so-carefully tucked the blankets closer to Aziraphale and asked, “How are you feeling?” The words were spoken in the most gentle voice he'd ever heard from the demon. He hadn't even realized a demon  _could _ sound gentle.

He should answer the question. He should at least thank Crowley for sticking his neck out to pull him from that well. Instead, Aziraphale said, “Where are we? Some sort of cave?”

“Ah,” a bit of color appeared in Crowley's cheeks. “I believe the term is 'lair.'”

“You have a lair?” Once Aziraphale thought about it, it somehow made more sense than it should have. “What happened to the castle?”

“Yeah...” Crowley dragged the word out several syllables, managing to look sheepish. “Haven't had that for a bit? It didn't fair too well in the Anarchy. Figured,” he swung a hand out at the cave, “Haven't tried a lair before. They're supposed to be very demonic, lairs are. Not quite sure why, to tell you the truth. There's nothing particularly evil about them. You'd probably like them, come to think of it. Very quiet places, lairs. No humans come 'round. You could probably store some books and such. How are you feeling?”

“You pulled me out of the well,” Aziraphale said, his mind working through each of the questions in a random order that felt natural but that he knew likely was not.

Crowley made the face he liked to make when he was going to debate something. “More like flew you out? Couldn't really get you out any other way. That thing was deep.”

So that confirmed that. He'd actually been rescued by a demon. Spending too much time thinking on that would likely break his brain.

“Aziraphale-”

“What happened to the others?” There had been four other demons. Not to insult Crowley, but Aziraphale couldn't see him being able to fight off four demons at once. He'd seen Crowley lose a pub fight to a very drunk human already. And that did not even begin to consider the amount of trouble Crowley would be in if anyone discovered he thwarted a demonic trap and rescued an angel. Whatever he did, it had to have been sneaky.

“Ah.” Crowley reddened again, confirming Aziraphale's suspicions. “Might have shown up and pretended Heaven heard your call and had sent Michael to intervene? And that she might have found me instead and we all needed to run very, very, very fast or be smited?” He rolled his shoulders and then stretched before studying Aziraphale as if he was a very interesting scroll. “Can't believe they fell for that one, but I don't think they come up here very much. And Michael usually features heavily in demonic horror stories. Aziraphale. How. Are. You. Feeling?”

“I...” He turned his head to look at where his wing was spread out. He'd known it was broken. He'd felt it break. There was pain and then there was _pain_ and a broken wing was the second one. It didn't hurt nearly as bad as it otherwise should, because someone – no, _Crowley_ – had set it and splinted it. The demon had heard his cry for help and provided it – and at great personal risk to himself. He thwarted the work of his own side to save an angel. He had then brought the angel – his hereditary enemy – to his home. He'd turned his back to that angel so he could try to guard the entrance from his own brothers and sisters. His wing had been _right there_ and it would have taken nothing, absolutely nothing, for Aziraphale to have lifted his arms, taken hold, and twisted _just so_.

Movement brought his attention to where Crowley was now fussing with various dried plants hanging from a rod near one wall. He watched silently as the demon selected several, dropped them into a bowl, and then moved to fill the bowl with water from a pot propped over the fire. Crowley must have sensed the attention. His shoulders hunched up and he muttered, “Helps with the pain,” while stirring the contents of the bowl.

“I'll be alright.” It wasn't  _really _ a lie. Eventually, he would be.

Crowley snorted.

Aziraphale tried to change the subject. “Do you, that is, would you happen to know why I don't have any clothes?”

“Had to cut them off you.” Crowley stabbed harder than necessary at the contents of the steaming bowl. “They were drenched all the way through and, even after I got you out, ice started to form on them.” He didn't look up from his work. “You can borrow some of mine after you drink this. I have a tunic that works with wings.” For the first time, the smallest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he added, “It's my lair wear.”

What, in all that was holy (or unholy) was 'lair wear'? That was the most ridiculous description of clothing.... Aziraphale sniffed. “I see.”

Crowley's head jerked up. “People  _die_ when they get too cold. It'sss not permanent for usss, but it'sss ssstill dissscorporation. You go into icsse cold water like that, you've got about fifteen minutessss to get your body heat back.” He was  _angry_ . Oddly, in the years he'd known Crowley, Aziraphale had rarely seen him actually angry. “You're more important than a sssstupid tunic!”

“I wasn't....” Azirpahale offered weakly. “I was trying to imagine 'lair wear.'”

“Oh.” Crowley looked down at the bowl again. His anger fizzled out as quickly as it appeared and he repeated, “Oh,” in a softer voice. He stabbed at the bowl contents a few more times, then strained them through a cloth to allow the liquid to pass into a second bowl.

_Why did you help me_ ? Aziraphale found himself wondering.  _Why do you _ care  _what happens to me? I'm your enemy_ . Sure, he'd finally agreed to help Crowley cut down on some excess work, but a day off here or there due to a bit of laziness wasn't worth what Hell would dish out if they learned what Crowley had done.

Crowley appeared beside him, squatting down and motioning to the bowl of medicine. “If I hold you up, would you drink some of this?” His eyes darted to Aziraphale's wing and then back to Aziraphale. “It really will help.”

“Yes.” He heard himself reply. “Of course.”

Crowley set the bowl beside them and then gently – so, so gently – lifted Aziraphale to a seating position. One hand remained on the small of his back, resting below the wings and careful not to touch them. The other lifted the bowl and handed it over before moving to help the first.

It wasn't long after the first sip that the pain in Aziraphale's wing receded even further, while his head began to feel a bit blissful and fuzzy. A voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like Gabriel, wondered if Crowley's plan was to poison him. Aziraphale dismissed it. If Crowley had wanted him dead, he'd had plenty of opportunity before now. Aziraphale took another long drink of the medicine, finishing what he had been provided. He let Crowley help him back against the pillows. “That's strong.”

“Nothing hurts like a broken wing,” Crowley offered, as if that explained it.

“Where did you learn...?” Aziraphale trailed off. He probably shouldn't go there. It was just, well, from things Crowley had said, Hell hadn't seemed very interested in  _reducing_ pain. Their approach tended to be the opposite. He didn't want to think about why Crowley would feel the desire to seek out ways to make things hurt less, because that meant thinking about a lot of uncomfortable topics. “Sorry. Not my business.”

“Humans. The humans taught me. Met one who learned that I like plants.” Crowley offered. He was on his feet now. “A woman in Hibernia. Ireland. I was her apprentice for a bit.” His wings disappeared as he pulled a tunic over his head. “They're clever. The humans, I mean.” His fingers moved to start tying his hair back off his face. “They're so adaptable. I think it's because they have imagination.” Hair secured, he padded back over to the sickbed and dropped to a cross-legged seat on the side nearest the cave entrance. “Think you can move to the bed, or would you rather stay here?”

The bed was probably more comfortable, but the floor ensured his wing stayed in place while it began to knit itself back together. Aziraphale was also not sure he'd be able to stand. His head felt awfully fuzzy and his eyelids were remarkably heavy. “Here is fine.”

“Alright.” Crowley picked up the dagger he'd dropped earlier and shifted to have a better view of the front of the cave. He fully intended, Aziraphale realized, to try to fight off anyone who came into the space even now.

It was like some sort of odd hallucination. Heaven apparently never showed up – couldn't be bothered to answer a call for help from one of their own. He supposed the official explanation would be that they were very busy and couldn't spare anyone, but Aziraphale was a field agent with thousands of years of experience and a strong background in the protective arts, so he should be just fine. Had he been discorporated, though, the entire thing would be his fault. He could even hear the clerks and see their disapproving glares. _How could you have been so foolish, letting those demons trick you into an ambush_? or _Discorporation due to hypothermia? You're supposed to be taking care of your corporation, Aziraphale. This reeks of laziness_. or _If you had just followed the procedures we put in place, this would never have happened. Didn't you read the updated employee handbook we sent? What to do when demons are threatening to mutilate humans is clearly spelled out in Section Q_. Heaven hadn't shown up and a _demon_....

“If you need anything,” Crowley's voice interrupted his thoughts, “Just give a holler, okay? I'm right here.”

_I'm an angel and you're a demon. _ Aziraphale watched Crowley settle into his watch. The stress started to take over his form again. Crowley was scared. He was trying to hide just how scared he was, but he was scared. There was enough evidence, then, for someone in Hell to put it all together if they wanted to go looking. “Why are you helping me?”

Oh. Oh dear. He hadn't meant to say that out loud.

Crowley swallowed and made a little motion that was intended to be a shrug but just looked stiff and unnatural. “You would have done the same for me.”

_No_ , Aziraphale thought as the tonic fully took over and unconsciousness pulled him back under,  _I wouldn't have._


	2. January 2, 1171 A.D.

**January 2, 1171 A.D.**

Crowley emerged from the wooden chest with two leather bound volumes. He hesitated, then fished out a third. “This is what I have for reading.” He set the books beside where Aziraphale had finally moved to the bed.

Aziraphale felt his eyebrows hitch upwards. Most people did not own a single book. The Church owned books and the nobility had a few, but it was rare to find them elsewhere. Crowley had taken more than one opportunity to make fun of Aziraphale for the angel's love of the written word and had scoffed when he learned Aziraphale had the makings of a small collection of reading materials. _Really? What are you ever going to do with the original copy of Revelation? Why can't you collect wine like a normal being?_ And here, all along, Crowley owned books_ – _plural. The irony was not lost on the angel. 

He was also instantly curious. What sorts of books would a demon want to read? Dark grimoires and other spell books? Tomes detailing Satanic ritual? Aziraphale picked up the first one and opened it. Neat, careful Greek told the beginning of a familiar story. “Ah.” He felt a smile split his face. “Homer.” He reverently ran a hand over the page. It was obvious from the workmanship that the scribe who copied this had taken great care with his transcription. Aziraphale could feel the love of the work radiating from the page. “I didn't know you liked epic poetry.”

Crowley pulled a heavy cloak around his shoulders. “Eh. Not really. It's just something to look at when I get bored.” His fingers fiddled with the clasp.

Aziraphale continued with the pile that was growing more interesting by the moment. The second book was an illuminated Gospel of John. Not exactly what he'd have expected Crowley to choose. He wondered if the demon had stolen it. He supposed it would make for a rather impressive demonic deed, stealing one of the coveted copies of the Gospels from a church. It would, at least, have taken quite a bit of daring. Last Aziraphale checked, demons found entering churches to be painful.

At Aziraphale's raised eyebrows, Crowley offered, “Opposition research.”

“Aren't you in this one?” Aziraphale asked. He turned the book over, taking in the ornate decorations on the cover. That was most likely inlaid gold. The more he considered it, the more sure he was that it entered Crowley's possession through dastardly means. This was the book of a high ranking church official.

“No. John skips over that bit.” Crowley replied. He was quieter than Aziraphale was used to seeing him as he pulled on a pair of long gloves. More subdued. “Though its not like I'm included in any of the others, either. I was recast. Minor demon of Hell isn't quite as interesting, I suppose.”

The final volume was written in a much older language, though the hand was clearly the same as the one that had painstakingly copied Crowley's _Odyssey_. Aziraphale glanced at the demon over the top of the book. No one wrote in this anymore. No one on earth _knew _it anymore, except perhaps a few Heavenly field agents like himself. And, apparently, at least one demonic one. But back home...back home everyone.... A feeling of homesickness settled over Aziraphale as his eyes slid across a page. It was silly, really. It wasn't like home had gone anywhere. He could pop up there if he really needed to. Couldn't he? Just because no one was available when he called – goodness, they might not even have gotten the message – it wasn't like they didn't want him there. He could always go home.

“Just some stuff on plants,” Crowley warned, mistaking Aziraphale's long silence. “It's dull.”

He looked up, grateful for the distraction from the thoughts tumbling over in his head. “This is yours.”

The demon nodded. “The other two are better reads, but if you're desperate – I mean, it will definitely help if you decide you want to try sleep. Put you right out.”

Aziraphale nodded, closing the book and laying it on top of the stack.

“The wards are as high as I can make them. Anyone in the area should find themselves wondering what they were doing out here and wanting to take a different path. If someone doesn't, I'll know, but....” Crowley's eyes were fastened to Aziraphale's splinted wing and he fell into silence.

“I should be just fine,” Aziraphale reassured him. “No one knows about your lair, and I have plenty of books to keep me entertained.”

Something passed in those reptilian eyes before Crowley turned and retreated to his wooden chest. He shut it, then reached into the space between the chest and the wall of the cave. A sheathed sword emerged and he carried it back to the bed. “Anyone who comes through that door and isn't me is a demon.” He held the weapon out, hilt first. “Do not hesitate to use this.”

Aziraphale looked at the weapon. He wanted to tell Crowley that would not be necessary, that everything would be just fine. Crowley would go into the village for whatever it was he needed to do. Aziraphale would read. It would be a quiet day.

He also knew he could not guarantee any of that. As he'd slowly recuperated over the past few days, the one constant had been that Crowley remained on high alert. Aziraphale wanted to write it off as a demon who was overly worried about nothing, but he couldn't. At the end of the day, Hell had a reason to send four demons into Crowley's territory to take Aziraphale out of commission without telling Crowley. Any rational for that decision was not good. Aziraphale's hand closed around the sword. “I will.”

Crowley nodded and pulled his hood up over his head.

He'd barely taken a few steps towards the entrance to his cave when Aziraphale asked, “Do you think Hell found out about the Arrangement?”

Crowley froze. After a pair of heartbeats, he said, “No.” It was the most confident thing that had come from his mouth that morning.

“How can you be sure?” Aziraphale asked.

“Because I'm not...,” Crowley moved to glance over his shoulder. “Whatever's going on, it isn't because of that.”

“They'll destroy you if they found out,” Aziraphale named the  _thing _ they were always dancing around. “Won't they?” If Heaven found out, there would be trouble, but the worst case scenario was that Aziraphale would find himself on celestial desk duty for the next few millennia. If Hell found out.... 

Crowley fully turned back towards the bed. “Well,  _I'm_ not planning on telling them, Angel.” The cocky swagger was back, wrapped around the demon like a shield. “So unless you're having tea and cake with Duke Hastur anytime soon...?”

“Wasn't planning to, no.” Aziraphale folded his hands and laid them on his lap. “I don't think he'd appreciate my favorite tea set.”

Crowley let out a little laugh. “No. Probably not. Look, everything should be fine. No one knows about this place, and it's incredibly hard to find unless you do.” He motioned towards the sword. “That's just a bit of insurance. I'll be back within the hour.” He turned back towards the entrance of the cave and called over his shoulder, “Don't give that away while I'm gone. It was a gift from a pal of mine.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Aziraphale murmured to himself as Crowley disappeared from sight. Well, then. He looked at the sword once more, then laid it where it was both within easy reach and unlikely to get caught in his blankets or the red tunic-like article of clothing Crowley had lent him. Lair wear, indeed. What the discerning demon needs to stay warm while flashing his wings about in a cave in the countryside. Well. It _was_ cozy. Crowley might be onto something, not that Aziraphale would ever tell him that.

He considered his options, before selecting the one he had not read before. It would be nice to read something new. He didn't know as much about plants as he probably should. Learning about their uses would be a constructive use of time. And if he happened to learn some things about his Enemy in the process, well....

Enemy.

An enemy who was acting like anything but.

Aziraphale pushed the thought away. Thoughts like that were dangerous. He knew what this really was. Crowley had an agenda and, for now, that agenda was furthered by aiding Aziraphale. That was it. There was nothing else to it.

Further, at the end of the day, whatever the agenda was had to be Evil. Crowley, after all, was a demon. He couldn't help what he was, but that didn't change that he was, in fact, _demonic._ And demons were not Good. They did not do things out of the kindness of their hearts. They did not have friends. They made short term alliances to get ahead, nothing more, and Aziraphale would be smart to remember that. He was being used to some end, and that was fine. He needed to see it for the business transaction that it was. He was getting his continued health and safety out of the bargain (at least for now). In a few more days, he'd be well enough to fold up his wings and tuck them back into another plane of existence. He could go home.

And if he could get some information on his Enemy in the process, information that he could pass along to his superiors to help push the scales a little bit towards Heaven's favor, well, he should. That was what a good angel would do. He returned to the journal.

Crowley hadn't been exaggerating when he said that the book comprised his notes on plants. There did not appear to be any organization to it. Crowley apparently wrote things down as he learned them, which was how notes for growing better onions ended up beside dosages of dandelion for treating various ailments. Although there weren't any dates, the pages corresponding to Crowley's time in Ireland could generally be identified by additional notes scribbled in whatever blank space Crowley had found about various incidents in daily life in the village. The later entries became sparser, and gave the impression that many years intervened between each page. He wondered in passing what changed. A new posting? At some point, Aziraphale knew, Crowley was sent to Wessex. There probably wasn't a lot of extra time to indulge in hobbies when one was responsible for spreading foment. It seemed a shame; Crowley's writing suggested he genuinely enjoyed his time learning about growing things.

His superiors would say it was for the best that Crowley wasn't doing serious work with herbs any longer. That sort of knowledge could easily be turned into a way to harm. And Crowley was a demon. Sooner or later, Crowley would use it for evil. He wouldn't be able to help himself. It was just how he was made.

_He was helping sick children_ .

_He's a demon. There had to be an alternative reason for it. Something evil._

_ How can helping children be evil?_

He snapped the book closed. That was quite enough of that. He should focus on something that wouldn't lead to uncomfortable questions. Doubting was not something Heaven approved of, after all. It showed a lack of faith. It was one of the greatest crimes an angel could have, not having enough faith. Aziraphale should trust his superiors.

He reached for the _Odyssey_. It was a much safer option. As he did, he took in the way the light fell across the entrance to Crowley's lair. It had moved quite dramatically, and it occurred to Aziraphale that more than an hour had passed.

It was probably nothing. Crowley likely got held up down in the village. He could have run into a friend, started talking, and lost track of time. Maybe the person he was supposed to meet was late. Was he supposed to be meeting anyone? Now that he was thinking about it, Crowley had been vague about the purpose of his outing. That meant it was something he knew Aziraphale would not approve of. Encouraging sin? Inciting violence? He glanced at the pile of books. Robbing a church?

Or was it worse? Had Hell discovered that Crowley was sheltering an angel? Was Crowley even still on Earth? Treason, he suspected, would be dealt with swiftly. Or at least, removal of the traitor would be swift. The torture that would likely follow wouldn't be. Unless, of course, Crowley decided to save his own skin by promising to turn Aziraphale over to his Hellish overlords. Aziraphale wouldn't put it past him. Crowley was, after all, a demon.

“Angel!” Crowley's cheerful voice split the silence. Well, speak of the devil. The demon followed a moment later, stepping into the light of the cave. “Good news! We're in the clear!” With a grin, he shook some snow from his cloak before removing it. “They don't suspect a thing. I'm even getting another commendation for sowing strife between the Monarchy and the Church.”

Aziraphale felt some of the tension leave his body. Trying to pretend he hadn't been wondering if Crowley was being dragged to his doom through every circle of Hell, he closed the _Odyssey_ and set it on top of John. “I take it you spoke with your superiors.”

“Yeah. Came out of the pub with this,” Crowley waved his prize – something that looked suspiciously like a jug of ale and not a nice red, “And ran into one of them. He demanded a report about what happened.” Crowley threw his cloak over the back of a rickety chair to dry. The jug, meanwhile, landed on his sturdy wooden table. “Turns out, the little bastards were trying to take my posting. Thought they could – get this – show Hell my incompetence – by killing my Adversary, get me booted back Down Below, and get appointed in my place. I explained, of course, that they were idiots whose plan resulted in the Archangel Michael showing up and trying to smite us all, and wouldn't it be a good idea if they weren't allowed anywhere near the surface for the next thousand years because they almost set back my work centuries.” From the pouch tied to his belt, Crowley pulled several small wrapped packages. “The Demonic Powers That Be agree. And then it was all the usual, _job well done, Crowley, keep it up, here's a commendation_ and what have you. We,” with a flourish, he pulled an apple from another pouch, “Are in the clear. Everything go alright here?”

“Oh, uh,” Aziraphale glanced at the books, “Yes. Just fine. Very quiet afternoon.”

“Give me a few minutes to cut this up and I'll bring it over.” Crowley motioned to his prizes. “You still like cheese, right? Because Rupert's wife makes the best cheese this side of the Thames.” He began unwrapping the small packages, unveiling small, hard cheeses. “Ran into him after talking with the boss, and explained I had an old friend from out of town who was visiting and it called for a bit of a celebration. Thought it would be a nice change from what I've got up here.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale tried to follow all of that, “It sounds nice.”

“Nice?” Crowley made a face. “I don't do nice. It's gluttonous, is what it is.”

Aziraphale hardly though an apple and a few pieces of cheese qualified as gluttony, but he let Crowley have his illusions. “And there were no, uh, other problems?”

“Nope. Couldn't have gone better.” Crowley finished preparing the food and tossed it into an empty bowl.

“No one from the host stalking around?” Aziraphale clarified.

Crowley stilled as he figured out what Aziraphale was getting at. He found the jug of ale very interesting. Finally, he said, “I didn't see anyone.” Lifting his head, he turned towards Aziraphale and quickly added, “Doesn't mean that they're not around, though. They're probably being very stealthy.”

“Crowley.”

“No, no,” he held up his hands, “I will give your side that. They can be quite stealthy when they want to be. It's not all,” he flung his arms wide open as if he was a theatrical performer, “'Behold, I bring you good tidings of great news!'”

“_Crowley_,” Aziraphale cut him off before having to suffer through Crowley's entire rendition of the Christmas story. “It's alright. I know Heaven didn't send anyone.” There. He'd said it. It was out in the open.

Crowley should have gloated. He'd earned his _I told you so_ moment. He'd called it. Aziraphale ceased being useful, and Heaven had behaved just as Crowley warned they would when that moment came. Crowley cleared his throat. “That doesn't mean anything.”

Aziraphale gave him a look. The look communicated just how stupid Aziraphale thought that comment was.

“Look, there are plenty of reasons they may not have been able to send someone.” Crowley suggested. “They might be dealing with a crisis.”

“Do you know something about a crisis?” Aziraphale couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice. It was kind of Crowley to spare his feelings, but they both knew no such crisis had occurred.

“Eh....” Crowley started.

Wait. Something  _had_ happened? Aziraphale tried to stand up.

“Oh, no you don't.” Crowley scurried, half tripping, back to the bed. With one hand, he pushed Aziraphale back down. “That wing isn't going to want to move for a few more days.”

“What happened?” Aziraphale ignored the scolding.

“Eh....” Crowley started again, his face scrunching up. His shoulders hunched slightly. “Look, you have to understand, it was  _not _ my fault.”

“ _Crowley_ .”

“I was bored. There was nothing to  _ do _ . You can only rearrange your lair and encourage fights at the local pub so many times before you are just  _dying _ of boredom, so I went over to Henry's place. Always a good time at Henry's, really.” Crowley explained. “And it was like, you know, hanging with the guys, drinking, telling stories, good times and all that.” 

It took Aziraphale a moment to realize who 'Henry' was. When he did, it took all his angelic diplomacy not to groan. Only Crowley would think  _gee, it's rather boring, maybe I should go see if the _ king of England  _wants to amuse me_ .

“And then - and I cannot stress enough that this part was  _not my fault_ – this messenger showed up with the latest thing Thomas did to get under Henry's skin.” Crowley continued, as if Aziraphale should know who these humans were. “Now, you know, I'm here and my mate has gotten some news about how this prick is causing problems  _yet again_ , so I'm trying to be a decent bloke, here. Just being decent. So, I did what any decent bloke might have done, and trash talked him a bit. Thomas, I mean. Not Henry. Very much  _not _ Team Church over here. And – it's just letting off some steam – but the next thing  _I _ know, Henry's temper is up and he might have said something about how no one would rid him of the meddlesome priest, and then some of the knights go and kill him. Thomas. Not Henry.”

“ _What_ ?” Aziraphale hadn't followed all of that, but he'd finally figured out just who 'Thomas' was and he certainly hadn't missed the important bit. “You encouraged knights to kill the  _Archbishop of Canterbury_ ?”

“Noooooo,” Crowley turned the word into four syllables. “The humans came up with that bit on their own. All I did was say some unflattering things. I didn't even suggest anything bad happen to him. They did all that themselves. But that was only a few days ago, Angel, and I'm sure Heaven is all wrapped up in that. Martyrs and such, that's got to generate a lot of work for Up There. And a martyr who died in front of an altar in a cathedral – that's  _got _ to add a whole other layer of work. They would have come.” 

Aziraphale looked away. He considered the argument, then dismissed it. Heaven did not typically get involved in events where humans murdered other humans. They tended to take a hands-off approach to those sorts of things. If the archbishop had become a denizen of Heaven, all it really would have required was some extra paperwork. There was no reason for paperwork to prevent sending someone in response to a call for help.

No reason other than the caller was expendable.

If he'd been a better angel, they would have come. He knew, if he asked why, someone would point that out.  _Well, Aziraphale, you have to understand. We couldn't risk losing someone important for a field agent who isn't that accomplished_ .  _It's just basic risk management._

Crowley had moved to hover near the bed. When he saw Aziraphale glance up at him, he repeated. “They would have come, Angel.”

_No_ , Aziraphale admitted to himself,  _No, they could have. They just didn't._

When this was over, he promised himself, he would do better. He would be a great angel. Next time, if he was better, they'd want to come.


	3. January 5, 1171

**January 5, 1171**

“Alright, careful now,” Crowley's voice came from somewhere above his head and to the right. “I'm going to touch your wing. All I'm doing is holding it steady to remove the splint.”

Aziraphale shut his eyes and concentrated on taking in a long slow deep breath. He let it out just as slowly and tried again. He needed to stay still. Yes, there was a demon who had a hand on his wing. Yes, when that had happened in the past, it ended painfully. Unless he wanted to walk around England with wings spread because one was splinted, someone was going to need to take it off, and his options were Crowley and Crowley.

Another deep breath. If Crowley had wanted to harm him, Aziraphale reminded himself, he would have done so before now. Crowley needed him to avoid work and more fully embrace his tendency towards the sin of Sloth. Crowley was not going to try to rip his wing off. A bit of pressure came from his wing as the demon shifted his grip to better hold the wing in place. Aziraphale felt the end try to flutter. He suppressed the motion.  _Still. Be absolutely still_ .

“You're doing great, Angel.” Crowley's voice was low, as if he was soothing a terrified animal. “I'm going to start taking this off now. Keep breathing. You want to talk about anything?”

That was an odd question. “Talk?”

“Yeah. Sometimes, it helps to talk. Keeps your mind from going bad places. Like, uh,” Crowley applied a little more pressure to the wing, “Did you have a nice Christmas?”

“Had to work,” Aziraphale told him. “They like us to hand out extra miracles that time of year.” He should probably keep the conversation going. He didn't think Crowley celebrated Christmas, though, and wasn't sure if there was an appropriate way to ask.

“Sounds like a drag.” Crowley replied. “Guess something has to be done to counteract all the humanness.”

“What-” Aziraphale felt a bit of a pinch. The wing tried to flap again.  _Absolutely still_ . “Whatever do you mean?”

“Eh, just that, humans spend more time around each other over Christmas.” For the first time, Crowley's voice took on a note of distraction. “You know. Friends gather together in good cheer and all that nonsense. When you get that sort of concentration of humans interacting, they're bound to get frustrated with each other and do terrible things. It's like self-creating-and-sustaining evil.”

“That's a terribly pessimistic way of thinking about Christmas,” Aziraphale remarked.

“You've never spent a holiday locked in a room with a bunch of them, have you? Almost done.” There was now concentration in Crowley's voice. “Two more deep breaths.” It took three, but then the pressure was gone, as was the splint, and Crowley was saying, “There we go. Done.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes. Crowley's hand was hovering in his vision. He took it and let himself be pulled to his feet.

“How's it feel?”

Carefully, ever so carefully, he flexed the wing. There was some dull throbbing from both the injury and the fact it had spent days held in one position. It seemed to move well enough, though. Aziraphale slowly pulled the wing in towards his body, then pushed it back out so it could fully extend. “Well.” He managed to say. “I'll be.” Who would have thought a demon could help heal an angel using human techniques?

“Looks like it's healing nicely,” Crowley observed, craning his head to take a look at his handiwork but being careful not to touch. “Your magic's taken over and knitted it back together cleanly. Probably won't even be able to tell it was ever broken by this time next month.” He took two steps backwards so he was out of the way, then added, “You should be able to put it away now.”

With a  _woosh_ , the wing folded into its place at Aziraphale's back. A rustle had it shifting onto another plane. Other than the residual soreness, it was like it had never been broken.

“There's some clothes on the chest if you want to change,” Crowley remarked as he retreated to his table. “Unless you want to prance around England in my lair wear?”

“I'd rather not,” Aziraphale agreed. The tunic was still, in his opinion, a bit obnoxious. Certainly nothing he wanted any respectable person seeing him wearing, even if having one in a soft blue exclusively for use at home sounded rather nice.

He easily found the garments Crowley laid out for him – nice, thick, sturdy, and warm. Aziraphale's shoes were sitting next to the folded stack, the only article that apparently survived the well. He turned his attention to dressing as he listened to Crowley mess with something at the table. Despite their differing heights, the clothes fit Aziraphale perfectly. Crowley had believed they would. While they were not what the Angel would have chosen for himself (there was so much black; it was as if Crowley was unaware color was even an option for clothes worn outside of lairs), they were as warm and comfortable as he'd initially suspected. Once everything was neatly in place, Aziraphale cleared his throat and turned back around. “Crowley? I just wanted to say...well, thank you.”

“Don't get too grateful on me. I'm fully expecting you to return those,” Crowley pulled something from one of his dried plants and dropped it into a bowl. “That's my best tunic you've got there.”

“I mean, for this,” Aziraphale tried to explain. “Helping me. Rescuing me. Healing my wing.”

“Eh, it's fine, Angel.” Crowley began smashing the contents of the bowl. “Drop it.”

He tried to drop it. Really he did. He just could not help but think, well, any other demon would have killed him. The other angels had ignored him. And if Aziraphale and Crowley's positions had been reversed, Aziraphale wasn't sure he would have saved the demon. “You shouldn't have done it,” He heard himself blurt. “We might have an Arrangement, but that's...it's nothing. I'm your Enemy.”

“Eh,” Crowley said again. He added something else to his bowl. “That's kind of a technicality these days, don't you think?”

“It most certainly is not!” Aziraphale was aware he was starting to fidget. “If Hell finds out, do you think they'll care about  _technicalities_ ?”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley let out a frustrated noise and turned around. “Let me decide what I'm going to do. I'm a big demon. I know the consequences. You want to repay me, then help me out by not going around talking about it.”

Aziraphale felt his hands flutter. He grabbed the edges of the borrowed tunic to still them. “I wouldn't. Talk about it, I mean.”

The demon scowled. “What are you doing right now?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down. Crowley was right. He was being foolish. He was always being foolish. Never knew when to let things drop. It was a wonder Heaven hadn't reached a breaking point already and booted him out like they had the others. “Oh, right. Not another word.”

Crowley returned to grinding the contents of the bowl into a powder. The silence stretched out. It passed awkward and was a good half-way through uncomfortable when Crowley made a little coughing noise. “Clothes work alright?”

“Yes.” It was a relief to have a safe topic of conversation. “Yes, they're fine. And I'll return these next time we meet.”

“Sure.” Crowley still didn't look up from what he was doing, but his shoulders relaxed. “End of February? That little place in London you like?” When Aziraphale didn't respond fast enough, Crowley added, “My treat.”

“No. I mean, yes, that sounds lovely, but I should pay.” The words spilled over each other in a bit of a jumbled mess. “I owe you one.”

“Suit yourself.” Crowley slid the powdered plants into a small satchel, then closed it and held it out. “Take this. I know you have healing powers, but wings are tricky and they take time. It'll help if the pain starts getting, you know.”

Aziraphale took it and tucked it inside his tunic. “Tha-” Seeing Crowley's eyebrows shoot up, he amended, “I mean, good to know. I'll use it if I need to.”

Crowley nodded. “Just let me tidy up and we can head out. You hungry? Need anything to eat before we go?”

“No.” He'd taken advantage of Crowley's hospitality long enough. Besides, it was time to get out of here and get back to his cozy house with its stone hearth and shelf of books. “No, I'm fine.” Aziraphale watched Crowley return his tools to their places before annotating his plant journal and sliding it back into the chest. Trying to make conversation, he asked, “Do you still study Irish healing practices?”

Crowley froze. His shoulders hunched. Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned away from the chest, a cold anger radiating from him. “What the Heaven?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, not quite sure where the misstep was, “I thought, that is, well, look, Crowley, I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do here. I'm not allowed to say 'thank-you.' You're still cleaning up before we go. The polite thing would be to make conversation while you work.”

“Polite.”

Oh, that had been the wrong thing to say, too. He was making a right mess of this all. No wonder the other angels gave him a wide berth. The thought sent a spike of frustration through him. “Is being polite now something demons can't do?” Aziraphale asked, a bit more snippy than he intended. “_Honestly_. Manners aren't good or evil. They're merely a way to navigate social situations. I was asking about something you were interested in. That's what people do.”

Crowley rocked forward on his toes and then back on his heels. He repeated the motion. After a long moment, he said, “You really don't know, do you?” He shook his head and rocked again. “I've been banned.”

“Banned from where?” Aziraphale felt his face scrunch up. “Ireland?”

“No, the moon. Yes, Ireland.” Crowley jabbed a finger in his direction. “Your lot banned me. Can't set foot on the island. It's like there's this big, this big wall around it. It's just like-” A stricken look appeared on his face before dissipating like an illusion. Had Aziraphale not been paying attention, he never would have seen it.

As it was, he did see it and he knew the rest of the sentence. _Just like Heaven_. Demons couldn't enter. The closest they could get, assuming they weren't attacked and eliminated on sight, was the area directly outside the wall. Had another demon told Crowley about the barrier around Heaven, or had he gone back, stood outside, and looked at the barricade separating him from those he used to call his brothers? It must feel awful lonely, knowing you couldn't go back home – knowing you didn't _have _a home anymore. Aziraphale tried to imagine it. He knew how lonely _he_ felt, how excluded he was, for not always being a good enough angel. And he was lucky. He was still in the family. He was still allowed in. How much worse must it be to be kicked out!

A nagging feeling wormed its way through his thoughts at that one. Gabriel would tell him not to feel sorry for Crowley. Crowley had not followed the rules, and now Crowley had to live with the consequences. Angels, Aziraphale knew, were supposed to follow the rules. They were there for a reason.

_You're breaking the rules right now_ .  _You're being friendly with a demon_ .

“I didn't _do _anything!” Crowley bit out mournfully. “I wasn't ssspreading demonic deedsss there. I wassn't tempting. The only questionsss I wasss asking were 'what doesss thisss plant do?' There wasss no _reassson_ for it. But your people sent that basstard to throw me out, anyway.”

Aziraphale blinked. To his knowledge, Heaven couldn't ban a demon from a place on Earth. They could make it very uncomfortable for them. It was, after all, why churches and sacred places caused unpleasant physical sensations for demons who dared to tread there. Heaven could not, however, outright ban demons from places on Earth. If a human could enter, a demon presumably could as well.

But Crowley wasn't just a demon. He was also a snake. And while Heaven likely did not target Crowley personally, he might have gotten caught up in something else just by virtue of being, well, what he was. “Saint Patrick.”

“Yesss. Basstard.”

He didn't know what to say to that. “I'm so sorry, Crowley.” He knew it wasn't enough. Reading Crowley's journal of plant lore made clear the demon really had loved what he'd been doing, and it didn't appear to be causing any harm. If anything, it sure looked like the sort of thing that Aziraphale's side should have been doing. “That's how you ended up in Wessex?”

“Had to do ssomething,” Crowley muttered. He twisted so he could lean against the edge of the table and cross his arms against his chest. “Keep the bosses happy. Reported in and they were all 'oh, there's an angel causing Peace over in Wessex. Go make some trouble for him, will you?' That was a bloody miserable posting, wasn't it? Cold and wet.”

Aziraphale wanted to point out that 'cold and wet' also described Ireland, but wisely kept that thought to himself. “Yes. Not the most comfortable posting for either of us, I'd imagine.”

“You were in a nice warm castle,” Crowley muttered.

“It was cold and drafty and always smelled terrible,” Aziraphale corrected. “Oh, and Arthur was a bit pretentious, if you must know. It was part of why I didn't want to take you up on that offer to go home and do nothing. That would mean more time I had to spend around him.”

Crowley looked at him out of the corner of one eye. There was an approving glint there. “Fair enough.”

“I  _am_ sorry, though. I didn't realize that...” Aziraphale sighed. “I truly was just trying to ask you about something you seemed to care about.”

Crowley nodded. He sighed, then said, “It's okay, Angel.”

They stood there, side by side, looking across the lair. A question poked at Aziraphale, one that had been bothering him since he first read the plant journal. “If it isn't inappropriate,” he started. Although Crowley's eyebrows shot upward, he didn't do anything to stop him, so Aziraphale continued, “How _did_ you convince your superiors that, uh, learning human healing practices was demonic?”

Crowley looked at his little work space. His face began to take on a pink color. “Oh, uh. Hell's not really full of the brightest beings. It's all in the labeling. I called it encouraging pagan practices, and they knew your lot didn't like the term 'pagan,' so they assumed what I was doing was work related. And the humans...they do my job for me. Let humans alone and they'll do more damage to each other than anything I can come up with. Then I just write the reports.”

“But,” Aziraphale gave his best impression of being aghast. “That's  _lying_ .”

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley's voice was a mixture of frustration and something that sounded a bit like amusement, “You were just going on about how I'm a  _demon_ .” He was smiling now. It was a genuine smile, not the mischievous grin he wore when he got away with something or the smirk when he thought he was being clever. It was open and true, and almost looked like a glimpse of the angel Crowley once was.

And that was the problem. Every time Aziraphale got it into his head that he really, really,  _really_ needed to stop letting Crowley come around, Crowley would go and complicate things. He would show kindness, or forgiveness, or friendship in a way that made Aziraphale wonder if everything he'd been told about demons was true. Crowley should be none of those things. While Heaven would insist Crowley was merely a fiendishly good actor, Aziraphale wasn't so sure. 

“So,” Crowley said.

“So,” Aziraphale repeated.

“We should probably get going,” Crowley decided. “Not much daylight this time of year. Unless you want to wait 'til tomorrow...?”

“No,” Aziraphale decided. “No, I really do need to get back to my post. I'll have to follow-up with the office after....” Oh. Oh how awful that would be. Filling out the paperwork for why he sent a distress signal. He glanced at Crowley, then back at his hands. He couldn't tell Heaven the truth, could he? It would put Crowley's life at risk. Either word would get back to Hell, or Heaven would decide to just eliminate the demon themselves. One less foul beast to worry about. He swallowed. He supposed that he could tell them he'd managed to get away and had been hiding out, but was otherwise fine. There'd probably be a rude letter, but.... Well, it wasn't like it would be the first time a letter would be placed in his file, would it?

Beside him, Crowley studied the floor as he played with the edge of his tunic, rolling the fabric over his fingers. After a moment, he said, “Aziraphale, I can't begin to understand what it's like. I mean, sure, Hell doesn't show up to help anyone, but it's Hell. Helping each other isn't really part of the organization's vision statement.”

“Crowley....”

He held up a hand. “I'm going to finish and then you can talk. I can't begin to understand what that's like. To have people who pretend they care and then don't. It sounds pretty awful to me. It's definitely not _right._ But, as awful as it is, Angel, you've really got two options and I promise you that it's better than the alternative.”

Aziraphale stiffened. “I never suggested otherwise. I'm sure,” He pulled his borrowed cloak tighter around his shoulders, “That there will be a perfectly reasonable explanation for all this. Now,” he concentrated, then manifested a strip of fabric, “It's getting late, and neither of us want to be out after dark. You'd better blindfold me and take me away from your lair so I can get home. I have very important things to do.”

“You don't need that,” Crowley said, finally pushing himself away from the table. “I trust you.”

“I wouldn't if I were you,” Aziraphale held out the blindfold again, “At the end of it all, we're on opposite sides. You're a demon and I'm an angel. You should take precautions.”

Crowley stared at the blindfold like it was a mongoose.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale moved his hand up and down, causing the blindfold to flutter. “You need to be realistic about this.”

The demon nodded once to himself. “Right.” His fingers closed around the blindfold. He looked down at it a long moment. “Right,” he repeated before motioning Aziraphale to turn around. The blindfold slid into place and, with a soft jerk, was tied. “Alright,” the demon said quietly. “I'll take you to the nearest village. But for what it's worth, you can take that off anytime. I only put it on because you asked.”

“I know.” And he did. He had been in Crowley's home for the better part of a week, and Crowley had shown him nothing but trust. It was a trust that Aziraphale did not deserve. He couldn't keep taking advantage of it.

“Okay,” Crowley said, his hand landing lightly on Aziraphale's shoulder to help guide him. “Listen carefully so you don't...fall off a cliff or something, okay?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale agreed. “I trust you.”

“No, you don't.” Crowley replied. “It's okay, Aziraphale. We're on opposite sides and mine doesn't exactly have a reputation for truthfulness. You don't have to.”

_I do trust you,_ Aziraphale thought as they started walking. He could at least admit that to himself, in the safety and quiet of his mind.  _This isn't because of you. It's because I don't trust me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> I am not a history scholar, and there are plenty of historical inaccuracies in here. Some, however, are intentional. I've used some modern shorthands and literary allusions to refer to and reference various real and mythological events. They are used for ease of identification for a modern audience.
> 
> While this is primarily TV-verse, I did incorporate some bookverse as well, such as the Arrangement starting in 1020, Aziraphale owning the original copy of Revelation, and that Crowley does, in fact, like some books.
> 
> The Odyssey features a hero who is clever and cunning, but ultimately achieves his goal of returning home. It felt like the sort of story that would appeal to Crowley.
> 
> Despite having a copy of the Gospel of John, the verse Crowley quotes in impersonating angels is from Luke.
> 
> One of the hard things about writing a fic whose end isn't the end of the tale in the universe is that the fic's story may not be able to resolve all the issues for the characters. Aziraphale is still at least repeating the party line about angels and demons in 2019. He'll eventually get there.
> 
> Extra Note Added After Writing – I'm now making a lair wear prototype. I'll post it on my tumblr whenever the wings I need to model it arrive from Wish. ri-writing.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> I have a whole NOTES section for this fic, which I'll post in Chapter Three because they contain spoilers for Chapters 2 and 3. 
> 
> This fic is completely written; I'll be posting it a section a day.


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